


From Yesterday

by glitteratiglue



Category: Twilight Series - Stephenie Meyer
Genre: Alternate Universe - Historical, Alternate Universe - Human, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, British, Brothers, F/M, Feels, Fluff, Heartbreak, Hurt/Comfort
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-11-22
Updated: 2011-01-01
Packaged: 2018-01-02 21:31:32
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 7
Words: 22,766
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1061879
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/glitteratiglue/pseuds/glitteratiglue
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In a time of war and uncertainty, love and friendship still prevail. But when a soldier's world is changed forever, can he find something worth living for? Jasper discovers that sometimes, redemption can be found in the most unlikely places.</p><p>(Historical AH AU fic.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Attack

**Author's Note:**

> It's set from 1916 onwards during World War One, at a time when war was fought in trenches dug into the ground. All the characters are British, so I'm being totally AU there even though a lot of it's set in France. But I'm allowed to do that, seeing as I am British. I'm not a historian, so don't shoot me for any inaccuracies *holds up hands*.
> 
> Disclaimer: All publicly recognizable characters, settings, etc. are the property of Stephenie Meyer. The original characters and plot are the property of the author. The author is in no way associated with the owners, creators, or producers of any media franchise. No copyright infringement is intended.
> 
> *** Thankyou to Alverdine, who encouraged me non-stop with this, and to venis-envy, SunKing and tiffanyanne3 for their betaing and pre-reading help. Especially to venis-envy for drunk brainstorming with me over a title and summary.***

"Do you think it's ever going to end?" Edward murmurs as we march in a line under the cover of darkness, our tattered boots squelching in the mud. Even in the gloom, I can see his face is weary under the strain.

"Yes," I say quickly, hoisting my heavy pack higher on my back, but there is no conviction in my words. I've been at war for eighteen months, since late 1914 when I rushed down to the recruitment station with the other boys in the town, dreaming of honour and bravery. I'm from Whitby, on England's beautiful North Yorkshire coast, but growing up there, I could have never have imagined where I'd end up. The freezing, stinking mud of France is a far cry from the small seaside town I miss every day. Nothing can prepare you for the realities of war. The months since we joined up have lurched by in a whirlwind of ill-planned skirmishes and waiting in fear, but at least we're in it together. Edward Masen and I have been close friends since childhood and stayed part of the same regiment when we were deployed to France after our basic training. Of course, he and I are merely puppets for incompetent generals, just like everybody else.

It's known as the "Great War", but it's nothing even close to that. The battle plans seem to consist of hundreds of men rushing headlong over no-man's land into the path of machine guns, and at least half will die. That is considered to be a worthy sacrifice, but it again seems to highlight the pointlessness of this war of attrition. Those foolhardy dreams of glory we had when we joined up as boys are long gone. I turn back to the sodden path ahead and march on dully, trying to expel these terribly unpatriotic thoughts from my brain.

#

In April of 1916, Edward and I are thankfully granted five days of precious furlough. We are packed like cattle in the trains, but I care not, basking in the knowledge that I am soon to see the shores of home. Back in Whitby, I am greeted in the street like a hero, despite the fact that I privately feel so uncomfortable occupying that role. I'm a trained, ruthless killer, and even if it is for my country, the faces of the men I've dispatched still haunt my dreams. Mother cries with relief when I finally walk through the front door, and I see first-hand the pain etched on her face. She's already lost too much since the death of my father who was taken by the rough North Sea when I was just ten years old. In some ways it is worse for those at home, always half-listening for the arrival of the dreaded War Office telegram.

_Killed in action._

_Missing in action._

These clinical, precise words are supposed to provide some comfort and closure for families, but they do no such thing. A life full of intricacies and moments is boiled down to three little words that are applied to thousands. How well I know that life is such a cheap commodity these days. My mother once again asks if I'll ever meet a girl I want to get engaged to, and I inwardly sigh, yet can't help but smile. It's just like old times.

Evenings spent at the pub with one or two old friends also on leave and groups of men too old to go to the Front. I join in with the jokes and laughter, but it is as if we are kidding ourselves. Even a good time seems so futile when I am to return to death and destruction and pain. On the last night before we return, Edward introduces me to this pretty girl named Bella Swan I surmise he's been sneaking off to see. She's nineteen, and one of the "canary girls"- women with faintly yellow-tinged skin from the chemicals used in their work at the munitions factories. Despite this oddity, she is remarkably beautiful, and I can give my approval eagerly, which I see Edward is thankful for. It's good money for a woman, and Lord knows we need ammunition, so I understand why they do it, but I feel faintly sick when I think about the implications of her job. The weapons she assembles will tear flesh and splinter bone, condemning sons, brothers, fathers to death with their brutal efficiency. Such concern for the flesh of my enemies is perhaps laughable, but I know too well that they are no different than I. In the deep, dank mud, every moment could be our last, whether a shell blows us to pieces or we're gunned down crossing no-man's land.

Just weeks later, I end up shipped back to hospital in London when I catch some shrapnel from an artillery bombardment. I'm told by the military doctors that the shards barely missed my vital organs, but I'm unsure whether I feel lucky to be alive. They're only getting me better to go back to the Front, not that I would ever desert. I feel a great responsibility for my men and what we all go through, and I know my duty to my country, even if I question the reasons for this carnage. When I return, there's a distance between Edward and me that's barely perceptible, but I notice. He obeys my orders and is a helpful member of my company but gives no other sign that outside rank, we are friends. Eventually, I get him to talk and he tells me he envies my visit home. When I tell him I spent three weeks in hospital twiddling my thumbs, he seems cheered, and I understand how he feels. He's gone so long without leave, and that takes its toll on any man. I know he wants to get back to Bella. Most of our regiment has been here far too long without a break, as malign luck has cursed us with a more active stretch of the front. We're spending less and less time in the reserve trenches and deploying more men to the front line. After any offensive, huge numbers of men will need to take the places of those who have died. And so it continues.

The winter is bitterly cold, and many of my men suffer frostbite as their boots have worn down. I was lucky enough to secure another pair, but even if I am warm, that brings its own problems. We're forever itching from the lice that lay their eggs in the seams of our uniforms, and scratching does no good. Unfortunately, there are far nastier things than their bites to worry about. I've probably lost more of my men to typhus than in battle, which is really saying something. Everyone is so tired of being cold and never having enough to eat. It will be a mercy when winter is over, as all we do is wait for the order to attack.

#

In early 1917, I know a brief respite when we make a stop in Amiens, a once-charming Picardy town that has become a centre of military activity. The men quickly file into a broken-down house on the edge of town that is now a brothel. The women there know they can make money turning tricks for soldiers, and it's doing a heavy trade. It is with a heavy heart that I make my way in there one day and am directed towards one of the ladies. I don't know what I'm doing here, but my feet have carried me there regardless. The prostitute I see is called Alice. She's certainly pretty, with long dark hair and piercing eyes that look as if they could see into your soul. As we enter her room, I note it's much nicer than what some of my men told me the others were like– I assume that's because she is reserved for officers, like me. Her English is far better than I expect it to be, and so we talk a little. She tells me that she studied, and came from a good family, but when her brother went off to war, their fortunes turned, and so she ended up here. I feel for her, ending up in a job like this, satisfying the needs of rough men like me who want to forget. I almost want to get up and leave, but like so many before me, I need the blissful oblivion that only a woman's touch can provide.

I watch her undress, her skirts and stockings falling to the floor, and my mouth is dry. I'm not sure what to do with myself. It's a long time since I've been with a woman, and I avert my eyes, my gaze swivelling to the floor. Alice steps closer and cups my chin in her hand, stroking my stubble.

"You seem like a very troubled man, Jasper," she says suddenly. "Even for an officer." Her hands come round her back to loosen the bones of her stays, each hook slowly detaching with the deft movements of her fingers. I'm momentarily too distracted by what she just said to appreciate the curves of her soft, supple body that she reveals as she peels the corset from herself. Her skin is marked with pink where the garment has cut into her sides, and I drag my fingers over it, rubbing soothing circles on the marks. She is right. I am troubled, but then, what soldier isn't?

"I've seen a lot of duty," I admit. She removes the pins from her hair, and I idly let one hand wander over her breasts, circling the pink peak.

"My brother is away," she says, and a tear glistens at the corner of her eye. I take my hand away, letting her sit beside me. "Every day I think I will hear he is dead. But then, I think I would know. Sometimes I just know things that will happen. I can't explain it."

"I'm sorry," I say slowly, but it's almost as if I've become desensitised to death. It's such a reality for all of us that it is impossible to ignore. I've filled men with lead and watched them collapse in agony. I know how it feels to run a bayonet through an enemy soldier, and the sickening feeling when you realise you have to push harder than you thought, and all the while their screams echo in your ears. Skin isn't soft like butter; it's hard and springy and to cut through it requires real force. Nausea whirls in my stomach and I look back at Alice, trying to push such thoughts from my mind. They won't really be much help in this situation.

"We've all lost something," she adds quietly, and her fingers move to my collar, unbuttoning the uniform. And then we don't talk any more. Alice is something else. In my current state, I'm afraid I'll let myself down, but she makes it easy. She isn't shy about that beautiful body of hers, and she certainly knows how to use it. I wouldn't call it lovemaking, it's nothing like that, but it serves its purpose. I get the feeling that she respects me to some extent, perhaps because I treated her like a human being and actually showed an interest in who she was. Afterwards, she watches idly as I fumble with my clothes and pull my boots back on. Wrapped in the sheets, she regards me with a curious air. "What are those scars?"

I'm sure she noticed those slightly raised scars on my arms and chest while we were in bed, but obviously didn't say anything at the time.

"Shrapnel wounds," I say shortly, swiftly buttoning my shirt to cover them, and she looks away, abashed. If truth be told, though, any scars a soldier has are nothing compared to the ones he wears inside him. I leave some notes on the chair, and before I leave I impulsively lean in to kiss her on the lips. I know very well that it's forbidden, but she doesn't try to stop me. It's a nice kiss, and for a moment, it makes me feel human again.

"Try to stay alive, Captain Whitlock," she says as I leave.

"I'll do my best," I tell her in darkly humorous tones. "Take care of yourself."


	2. Edge of the Earth

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ** Thanks to evieeden for the last-minute beta job - she's a star. **

By mid-1917, I've reached the rank of major, but Edward remains a lieutenant. It's not that he's a bad soldier or anything. I consider him a valued member of the company, but his talents lie elsewhere. When we were children he played the piano incessantly and had expensive lessons that his well-off parents paid for. Not being musical myself, it amazed me, and his skill with the instrument is such that he could be a composer if he wished. Killing is not his forté, but there's no shame in that. At the age of twenty-two I've become the youngest major in the regiment. For some reason, the men will just listen to me, and I seem to have a gift for leadership I never knew I had. Although, it doesn't exactly make me feel good to know that my own talents lie in being a soldier – a more eloquent name for someone who kills for a living.

One night, the other half of our regiment is called away on supply duty, Edward included, and I am responsible for the cohort that remains to guard the trench. In my new position, it seems strange to be his commanding officer. When we are on duty I must treat him the same as everyone else, but he is still my friend. I get talking to Daniels, a pleasant young lad on his first time here, as I come to relieve him after a twenty-hour watch in three feet of mud. It is easy to forget that we are all normal away from this living hell that is our duty. He tells me about his wife, Florence, and that they have a baby on the way. I congratulate him and we exchange a few pleasantries before he turns to leave to grab a few hours of scant sleep.

And then the shell hits, the echoing impact obliterating the wood beneath my feet. I am blown to the side, narrowly escaping the blast by inches. Slowly, I turn, afraid to see what the shell has left in its wake. Body parts everywhere protrude from the thick, foul mud and the terrible scent of burnt flesh hangs in the air. Two other men from my regiment, Smith and Parsons, come rushing through from the other part of the trench and shake their heads, appalled at the unfortunate Daniels' fate. But we must be businesslike nonetheless – the clean-up procedure is clear. We grab a bucket and shovels and start scooping up the various dismembered body parts. And when we are done, I bend over the shattered duck boards and vomit, retching long after the contents of my stomach have expelled themselves.

"Jesus, Whitlock, you're white as a sheet," Smith exclaims as he regards me, still unable to get up, my body covered in the mud and particles of a dead man. "Sir, I mean," he adds hastily, reminding me of the fact that despite his experience, he is my subordinate. He's an older, more seasoned soldier who fought in the Boer war and is used to such brutality. He hands me his handkerchief to wipe my mouth and I take it gratefully. My eyes close, but all I see is half of a face blown apart, one eye still open, a hand, an arm. It's all that is left of that laughing young man who had his life ahead of him.

For days afterwards, my hands shake and I flinch at the sound of every bombardment. My mind wanders, and I drift in and out of consciousness even in my waking hours, feeling as if my sanity is slowly slipping away. I know that I have to get a grip on myself, or one of my men will report me to the battalion doctor, sympathetic as they are. A diagnosis of neurasthenia would not only bring into my question my abilities as an officer, but would label me as "mad" and a danger to those around me. Although, maybe I am mad.

Sometimes when I lean on that familiar mud wall, the rifle poised in front of me, I laugh darkly to myself even while my hands tremble on the trigger. There is something terribly wrong when men are thought of as insane when they really are the sanest. What the average soldier endures out here – lack of sleep, constant shelling, disease, hunger, cold, and a constant threat of being called out to the front – is more than any human body should have to bear. Every man has his breaking point, and I pray that I have not reached mine.

I am sure that I am only days away from being reported, but no matter how hard I try, I continue to lose my grasp on reality. I dole out orders in a monosyllabic tone that I don't even recognise, and even though I see the men exchange significant looks with one another, I don't care. The day after that, Edward and some others return from their stint in the communication trench a few miles away. That same night, he finds me wandering near the top of the trench, right on the edge of no-man's land. At first I don't hear him. I'm pacing with a revolver in my hand, telling myself I'm looking for enemy soldiers.

"Jasper, what the hell are you doing?" he hisses, momentarily forgetting his inferior rank as he tries to bring me to my senses.

"Nothing. Just patrolling," I hear myself say, and a laugh comes out of the darkness.

"Don't give me that," he says, in tones harsher than I've ever heard from him before. "You're trying to get yourself shot. You know what they tell us. It's classed as risk-taking behaviour. Do you want to end up in the fucking loony bin?"

"Thanks for thinking I'm mad," I mutter, still not moving despite his painful grip on my upper arm.

"I'm telling you this for your own good," he says, lowering his voice to a whisper. "I get back and I find everything's gone to shit. The men have been talking amongst themselves, they think their commanding officer's lost the plot."

"I haven't!" I say, rather more angrily than I intend. "I'm just tired."

"They told me what happened. Look, I know you had a man's guts all over you, but if you don't get a grip, you'll end up having some sadistic doctor zapping you with electrodes in one of those shell-shock treatment places. Or worse, they'll claim you were entirely sane and you'll be court-martialled and shot by a firing squad."

I sigh, knowing he's right but unwilling to even admit to my best friend how much I was affected by a simple shell attack. It happens all the time. Perhaps my case was a particularly horrific one, but all the same, nothing that other soldiers haven't suffered. At least I'm alive, unlike poor Daniels.

"Please don't tell anyone about this," I say finally, stepping down to plant my feet firmly on the grooved wood.

"You know I won't, Sir."

He salutes me, and I return it. "At ease, lieutenant."

#

A few days later, we find a moment to talk in the dugout while he writes yet another letter to Bella. I idly watch his pen form words on the page, the ink occasionally forming blots on his fingers. He looks up with a heavy sigh.

"I worry she'll forget me, you know," he says quietly, his eyes tightening at the corners. "I write every week, but due to our communication problems, she doesn't always receive them."

"I know I only met her the once, but Bella doesn't seem like one of those flighty girls. She trusts you, and she knows you'll come back and marry her."

"We plan to do it the next time they let me out of this hell-hole," he tells me with a sigh. "I'm sick of staring at four walls that are nothing but mud."

"At least you're not on sanitation duty, like Evans. The poor bloke's stuck burying the contents of the latrines for the next month."

"Now that's a shit job," Edward says very seriously, before he looks at me, his mouth twitching. As I burst out laughing, he echoes it, and for a moment we laugh and laugh till our sides ache. It's a remarkable aspect of humanity that even in the worst situations, one can always find something amusing.

"When do you think orders will come through? I think we're going to be pulled back to the reserves soon."

"That'll give your nerves a rest." I know he doesn't mean it that way, but the memory of my near-breakdown is still sharp, and it irritates me. I don't like him bringing up my one moment of weakness.

"You might want to talk about nerves," I mutter. "Worrying about whether your girl's shacked up with some other man. I would say that it's really the least of your worries, given that the only available men back home are children, the old, and conchies. I can't see Bella going off with one of those, can you? That would rather bring into disrepute her supposed pride at making the weapons for our boys."

"Look, shut it, alright," Edward replies in harsh tones, but I can see he's smiling. "I wasn't worried about that. And you know, she isn't proud. But it's the best-paid thing out there and she does it so that her family can put food on the table. You know her mother's sick."

"I know. But look, that girl is absolutely head over heels for you. Trust me on that one, I could see it. Lord knows why, you're such an annoying, moaney bastard."

He punches my arm, and I shove him back, knowing that I've cheered him up. He turns back to his letter, and I fish through my pack for the tattered notebook I sometimes write my thoughts in. It helps me to sort through the days, and lets me remind myself that one day there will be an end to this.

"What do you think you'll do when we get out of here?" Edward says softly, laying his pen down as he finishes the letter.

I look up from the page I'm on, pausing the scrawl of my own pen. "What, when the war's over?"

"Yeah."

"Oh, I don't know. Probably go and be a civil servant at Whitehall or something. You know that Mum was always keen on me 'getting on' in the world, as she liked to say. I think that also includes marrying some posh girl."

He smiled. "I don't know what job I'd do. Maybe I'll go into business for myself. But I tell you, there's nothing I'd like more now than seeing Bella again." I took in his serene, calm expression, a look you so rarely saw out here, and for a moment I felt the cold sting of jealousy. I envied him, perhaps for Bella herself, but more for having someone awaiting his return. I received word earlier this year that my mother died of pneumonia that set in suddenly, and now there's nobody in my home town to go back to.


	3. Oblivion

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tissue warning. This will get heavy, but please stick with it.

Chapter 3: Oblivion

In February 1918, Edward is finally granted some leave, and he fulfils his wish to marry Bella Swan. I'm not on the same rota, so I'm sadly unable to attend his wedding to Bella, but on the day it takes place, I think of them and hope their day goes with good fortune. On his return, he tells me it was held on the cliffs near the abbey, and they even had a brief honeymoon down the coast at Sand's End.

It feels like the wind is changing. Our attacks are less frequent, and tanks are being deployed, great metal beasts that destroy everything in their wake. A couple of months later we're occupying one of the farther-back trenches on the support lines. However, the purpose of support trenches is to attract the enemy bombardment away from the front line, and so we know every moment we sit here, we're at risk.

I'm trying to write some reports at the ramshackle wooden table, but it isn't easy when the rain is beating down on the dugout with a noise like marbles crashing on concrete. Edward suddenly bursts in, having just come off his watch. The water's pouring off his oilcloth cape, and I'm glad that I don't have to be in his place right now.

We salute, but then drop the formalities.

"You're pretty wet there, Masen."

He grimaces, before sitting down opposite me and pulling his boots off.

"Here, I'll put them in front of the fire," I say, taking them and shoving them next to my own boots that are drying in front of the small fire. "It's raining cats and dogs out there, sir, I think by the end of the watch I was standing in five feet of water," he tells me. But then he cuts the act of being my subordinate and I can see he's excited about something. It's the same look he used to get when we were boys and he'd rap on my window to tell me about the new pet slug he'd found. "Bella just wrote."

"What is it?" I ask, unsure why that demands such a level of excitement.

"She's pregnant!"

"That's great – congratulations," I tell him, genuinely happy for my friend. I clap him on the back and he pulls me into a hug. Edward and I have never exactly been the embracing types, but it's the sort of moment that demands it. Of course, out here, we have to do the tasks of both men and women, and it's not unusual to see men being downright tender with one another. Even the most macho of men out there have to darn our own socks, cook and look after the sick. It would be funny, almost, but it's just the way it is. Laughing to myself, I rummage in my pack and find a small bottle of whiskey that the Red Cross sent in their last parcel. It's supposedly for emergencies, but I figure we can spare a bit for a celebratory moment such as this. I pour a little into billycans, and we sip it slowly, wanting to savour the hot, fiery taste that warms us up from the inside out.

"The only thing is, she's had to give up work in the factory," Edward says after a moment, his expression concerned. "The doctor said it wouldn't be good for the baby. At least I can send some of my earnings home so they'll be okay."

"Well, you're married now. It's your responsibility to support your missus."

"You make me feel so old," he laughs, clinking his metal cup against mine. We take another drink. "God," he exclaims. "I'm going to have a family. It seems so..."

"Normal?" I supply, and he nods.

A shadow falls over his face. "I just hope this war ends soon. That I get to see my son. Well, Bella thinks it's going to be a son, anyway. She says she has a feeling about it."

"A mini Edward. Good God." I laugh. "Can you imagine what our eighteen-year-old selves would think of us having this conversation?"

"We'd think we were boring bastards," he laughs. "We were all so different, then, eh?"

"The war's got a funny way of making you grow up fast." How true I knew that to be. "I sometimes think I'll end up being a fisherman or something. Even with what happened to my Dad and all. But it's nice to be out on the sea. You can be free. I think I'd like that after spending most of my time in a place where all you see is mud and sky."

"Come on, you're better than that," Edward suddenly says seriously. "You've seen the way the men listen to you, and they've let you rise up the ranks quicker than most lads your age. You should be a politician or something."

I shuddered. "Well, I never know if I'll get killed tomorrow, so what's the use in wondering? It all seems so pointless sometimes."

"I didn't realise you'd become Bertrand Russell."

I punched him on the arm. "Yeah, right. So what's he going to be called, your son?" I say, changing the subject.

"In the letter, she says she likes James for a boy. To be honest, I'm happy to go along with whatever. I'm so proud of her."

"That's a good strong name." He sighs, and for a moment, looks pensive.

"What if I died tomorrow?" he says suddenly, biting down on his lower lip.

"Oh for God's sake, don't listen to what I say," I tell him impatiently. "I was just being the standard embittered soldier."

"But seriously. If something happens to me, I don't know what would happen to Bella and the baby."

"You know I wouldn't let anything happen to them," I say, and I truly mean every word.

"You'd make sure they were okay?"

"I promise you I would." His face relaxes, but I feel a hard knot of fear. Such conversations are an uncomfortable reminder of our mortality, and I pray that I'll never have to keep that promise.

#

It's November 4th, 1918, and we're advancing on the German forces. The canal is our only barrier, and the treacherous, waterlogged ground around it. It's night, and we're supposed to provide cover for the sappers to lay traps on the bridge, but as we near the water's edge, I realise that something's terribly wrong. They know we're coming, and before I even have a chance to think, the machine guns spring to action. The shots ring out, and there are clusters of screams and flying bullets everywhere. I dive for the ground, rolling behind a boulder as the shots ricochet off the stone behind me. I've narrowly escaped, and I stay where I am for a moment, my heart hammering in my chest as I contemplate our next move. The men run for cover, but I hear screams and know not everyone has made it. Fuck.

Then there's a suddenly a break in the fire, an eerie stillness in the air, no sound but the frantic scrambling of my men as we draw back into the trees. I crawl on my belly to the edge of the canal that's hidden by trees, looking around. And then my eyes fall upon a figure lying at an odd angle, slumped on the edge of the tree line. I sigh heavily. I've lost too many of my men already. The sappers didn't even have a chance before they were ambushed. Ridgeley and Jacks were near this side, and I pray that it isn't my two best marksmen.

Oh God. No. It's Edward. At first I think he's dead, but then he moves, and I feel an unimaginable relief. However, that relief is strangled within seconds when I gently move him on his back and see the dark stain spreading out from his side.

"J-Jasper?" he murmurs, his eyes flickering open for a moment. I take his hand and grasp it, tears welling up in my eyes.

"What happened?" I say when I can finally get the words out. I'm no medic, but I know right away that this doesn't look good. He's losing too much blood, and I don't know what to do. "I thought you were bringing up the rear of the attack."

"Everything happened so fast...we weren't prepared," he says in a low voice, his face drawn with pain. "I thought I'd got out of the way, but then there were bullets coming from the other direction. I guess I just wasn't – quick enough. I..." He trails off, his face crumpling in agony, and his hand finds mine. I hold it so tightly, angry that things are turning out this way. I'm unwilling to believe it, but I know in my heart that he doesn't have a chance in hell, the wound's too deep. It isn't fair that he's going to die now, after all this time.

He can't die. He can't. I chant this in my head as I hold my best friend to me, telling myself it's not true even while his life slips away by the seconds. Rivulets of dark red blood leak onto my tunic, staining the khaki, but I don't care.

"You'll be okay," I tell him dully. "We'll get you to the field hospital."

Edward grimaces, but the next second, he manages a small smile. "You lying bastard. We both know I'm done for. I just wish I'd gotten to see what my son looked like." I dimly register the faintness of his voice and my stomach clenches.

"I'm sure he'll be great looking if he looks like Bella," I manage, although there's nothing light-hearted about my voice. My words are being strangled by terror.

"I don't want to leave her alone," he whispers, and for the first time, he sounds afraid. "I'm not scared to die, but I'm scared of leaving her a widow."

I have no idea what to say to that. What am I supposed to tell him? That she'll be okay? But I know she will be, because I haven't forgotten what I promised him, and I hope he hasn't either.

His slackening grip tightens around my fingers once more, and he looks up at me, his gaze purposeful. "Please, just..." he begins, unable to finish his sentence.

"I'll take care of them," I tell him, my words heartfelt even if I'm not really sure what he's asking of me. His eyes find mine one more time, and even in the gloom, I can see the brilliant chartreuse of his irises. So many times I've seen those eyes dance with mischief and excitement, joy and sadness. But now, there's nothing.

"Thank you." And then the green eyes lose their glimmer as Edward breathes his last breath. I feel the sudden limpness of his body in my arms, and have to fight to keep myself from screaming. I'm still in command, and for now, I have to bury my emotions in the interests of survival.

Jacks, one of the lieutenants, instantly comes upon me, and claps a hand over his mouth, shocked. His eyes are sympathetic, but I am his commanding officer and as such, he looks to me for guidance. The others are starting to appear, drawing back from their hiding places.

"We've lost Masen!" somebody yells. "Man down!"

I whisper to them to be quiet, as we don't want to jeopardise the safety of the rest of us.

"Pull back!" I hiss, and the company follow me back into the trees. My knuckles are white where I'm holding my rifle so tightly. I don't want to leave him there, but I'd be putting everyone at risk if we tried to recover the bodies now. Perhaps we will be allowed a recess eventually to recover our dead. Our forces on all sides are closing in on the German guns, so hopefully we'll advance farther.

A numbness is spreading throughout my entire body, and it feels a little like the time the shrapnel brought me down. Frankly, if I was shot now, I probably wouldn't even notice. I've lost several in my company, and cannot appear to be overly emotional over the death of one, but God help me, I am. As we lie and wait, I appear composed, but under the cover of darkness, I allow myself to shed a few silent tears that drip onto the strap of my helmet. This is what people mean when they talk about the horror of war. Horror is holding your best friend while he dies in your arms, knowing that he leaves behind a wife and an unborn child who will never know his father.


	4. The Mission

The next fortnight passes in a blur, and I barely even register it when we are told that it's over. But the one person I should be sharing that moment with isn't there, and so I feel cold and empty. I'm grateful when the military board rules that I'm able to return home on priority. They cite the length of my continuous service, my apparently stellar leadership skills and conduct in battle, and of course, the death of my best friend and the need to tell his wife what has happened. I realise how lucky I am, although I wouldn't really use that word. And not just for the chance to avoid the painfully slow process of demobilisation. I've heard tell of the spread of a virulent illness known as Spanish influenza, and I know that many men in France have already died of it. The demobilisation camps are a haven for disease, and indeed, I do count myself lucky to have escaped that. Perhaps it is a mercy that Edward was granted a quick death by gunfire, rather than a descent into a burning fever that kills. I need to make my way to his parents' house on the hill to deliver the dreadful news, but I also know that I have to tell the mother of his child first. Eventually, I find myself staring at a blue front door above a neat, scrubbed set of steps. There are flowers in the window boxes, and the net curtains hanging in the window are gleaming. It's a cheerful little house, and I almost can't bring myself to shatter its quiet serenity.

My hand hovers over the doorknocker before I wrap my fingers around it and rap on the door; once, twice. Knots twist in the pit of my stomach as I wait for someone to answer. I hear the click of locks being hurriedly unfastened, and it's Bella. I've obviously caught her in the middle of housework, for her hair's tied up in a net and she's wearing an apron. Even though her clothes are loose, I can see the soft swell of her belly. She's pretty and pink-cheeked and radiant, having lost the yellowish tinge that the munitions work gave her skin. I can hardly bear to destroy that. There is hope in her eyes, but as soon as she sees it is me, that dies right then and there. I almost can't bear to tell her what she's known from the second she saw my face.

She blinks. "Jasper?"

"Bella, I..."

She cuts me off. "No. No...Don't tell me." Her breathing catches, and she slumps forward, collapsing. I catch her by the arms, holding her upright. I'm concerned about what effect this sort of news will have on a woman in her condition, but I know that I had to tell her. I put my arm round her and steer her into the kitchen, helping her into a chair before I sit opposite her. I take my hat off and run my hand over my eyes, trying to dislodge the tears that are falling. "I was expecting a letter from him," she adds, and dissolves into hysterical sobs once more. I shift my chair round and pat her awkwardly on the back, not sure what to do.

"It was very quick," I tell her, and that is no lie. "He was shot."

"You know, a week ago, they were ringing out the bells that declared peace in the town. And all I could think was that he was on his way back to us." Her hands drop to her belly and she sobs.

"I apologise that you didn't know sooner. That's all my doing. The War Office would have sent a telegram, but I didn't want you to find out like that. I wanted to be the one to tell you." I'm stumbling over the words, for I just don't know what to say. "I was lucky they sent me back, it's going to take months to demobilise us all."

"I know," she said, looking up at me from beneath tear-soaked lashes. "Thankyou for that. I'd rather hear it from someone who actually knew him, not just from a faceless telegram."

"I don't know what we're going to do now," she cries. "Oh Lord, and I just don't know what my mother's going to say. She's round a friend's house for tea now, you know, her arthritis has actually been a lot better of late. Just when I thought things were getting better..." Bella's talking nineteen to the dozen, about anything, it seems, just to distract herself from the terrible news I've given her. I stay with her for the next few hours, alternately letting her talk and kindly patting her on the back when she breaks into a fresh spate of sobs. She protests once or twice that she feels guilty, as I have suffered a great loss too, but for now, I feel as though her grief should take precedence. Eventually, her mother and sister return home and immediately flock to her side. I quietly slip away, not wanting to disturb her family's comforting of her, but Bella thanks me for coming again. I have an even worse task next – making my way to Edward's family home to tell his parents.

#

When I tell Edward's parents, I can't imagine anything worse than what I just told Bella, but then, I don't know if anything is worse than hearing your only son is dead. Elizabeth, his mother hugs me and cries, and his father, Edward Sr, stands stolidly, showing no emotion, but he shakes my hand and thanks me for coming to tell them. Elizabeth asks if I'll come back and see them sometime, and I tell her I will. I promise to tell her some stories about Edward and I. She gives me another hug, and I breathe in her scent of lavender soap, thinking of my own mother with a pang. How she would have loved to see me come back a war hero, even if that isn't how I feel at all.

I leave their house with a mind to have an early-evening walk through the town to clear my head. It's so long since I've been here – over two years since my last furlough – and yet I still know my home town like the back of my hand. Every winding cobbled street and alley is familiar to me. I decide to make my way to the East Pier, one of my favourite places to go and think. I'm still in the fatigues I travelled in, and that attracts some attention as I walk through the town centre. I smile at those who address me, but I feel uncomfortable with their praise. A little girl even runs up to me and hugs my knee, refusing to let go until her smiling mother comes and removes her. I tip my hat to the girl as I leave, although, again, I surely don't know why she thinks I'm a hero. There's nothing heroic about the past four years of my life. I hear it's already being called the 'Great War', but there is nothing great or honourable about such bloodshed. This is not an opinion I voice freely, but it is one that I know is shared by many of my fellow ex-serviceman.

It's a chilly November day, and as I reach the pier, the wind billows through the boards I walk on. They're not so different from trench duckboards, really - just cleaner. Unsurprisingly for a day like this, the entire length of the pier is deserted. I lean on the railings at its front and look our over the forbidding, choppy sea that batters the supports of the pier each second. It's a strangely peaceful place, even if the sky is darkening. I don't even feel cold. I guess the muddy, icy French winters will do that to a man. I've barely allowed myself to think of Edward since it happened, but it all comes flooding back. I'm standing here, alone, and my best friend and comrade; the person I've known since we were both five years old is gone. My fingers grip the cold metal almost painfully, and in this private setting, I allow myself to weep for what I've lost. I watch the waves crest and fall, the sea spray on my face blending with my tears. For one mad moment, I entertain the idea of climbing the railings and dropping myself, letting the sea take me, but something stops me. It's the promise I made to Edward that I'd look after his wife and child, and I can't let him down. Perhaps I wouldn't feel so bad if I knew I had somewhere to go back to. There's little comfort to be found even in the freedom of the sea.

The deeds for my mother's house passed to me when she died, so at least I have a place to go. I know Mrs Rivers, the neighbour, has been keeping the place up, but I'm not sure I feel like going there just yet. It's too lonely to think of being in the home I spent my childhood in, where the kitchen always smelled salty and the wind off the sea would rattle the windows at night. But now both my parents are gone, it's not a home, it's just a house. An empty shell of a house filled with happy memories I almost wish I could forget.

Having given her some time with her family, I feel as if I should stop in at the Swan house again and see if there's anything I can do for Bella.

My second knock on this door is different, and yet I'm no less nervous. It's opened this time by Bella's mother.

"What do you want?" she says suspiciously, holding the door open a little way.

"Major Jasper Whitlock, ma'am," I say, removing my hat. "I came to see Bella earlier. You must be her mother. Glad to meet you."

"Oh!" Comprehension dawns on her face. "I didn't know it was you – sorry, I didn't really notice you earlier; you disappeared so quickly. I apologise, I just don't want anyone else bothering her right now. It's difficult enough for her as it is. And yes, I am her mother. My name's Renée."

I hover on the step awkwardly, unsure whether I should come back later, but she pushes the door open.

"Well, come in, lad, for goodness sake!" she says in exasperated tones, ushering me inside, and I comply. There's a kettle boiling on the range, and the kitchen appears serene. All the same, there's a shadow cast over the house, a despair that has seeped into every picture frame and fleck of paint missing from the ceiling. "I am sorry about that," she adds. "But you know, I don't want anything upsetting her more, it's so close to her time. She needs to be resting right now."

"Of course," I agree. "How is she?" I ask, thinking that I might as well just come out with the inevitable question

"You know. She's up and down. She goes from talking about the baby to crying her eyes out. She's upstairs with Rose, her sister. Rose is a sensible girl and won't let her wallow. I'm sure she'll be alright with her. Her husband Emmett's still garrisoned over in France, you know. It's going to take months before he can come back." I feel uncomfortable about the fact that I was allowed to return when so many others haven't been, and I think Renée knows this. She's currently busying herself with pouring the tea, but she looks up and addresses me.

"It was kind of you to tell her yourself. It can't have been easy getting them to let you come back this soon."

"It wasn't," I say, gratefully accepting the steaming hot mug of tea she hands me. I cradle it in my cold hands and take a sip, feeling the warmth begin to thaw my frozen insides.

"We're going to have a memorial service at St Mary's soon. There are so many of them being held these days. I take it you're a Methodist, Jasper?" That last part is directed rather sharply at me, and I confirm that while wondering why it's even important.

"I am. That's where they married, isn't it?" I ask, and she nods, her features stretching into a wistful expression.

"Yes," she says sadly. "It was such a lovely day, despite being so early in the year it wasn't even windy. She seemed so happy, they both did. It's been hard for my girls, you know. When my Charles died of scarlet fever, Bella was only fourteen, and Rose was sixteen. My widow's pension wasn't enough for us to get by. I worked so hard at the mill in Manchester trying to provide for them that I got arthritis in my fingers. A year or two after that I moved us out here. The sea air's better for my health, and I wanted them to have a chance for something better than me. I'm not sure you've met Rose, but she's my beauty - with those blonde hair and blue eyes the lads were always clamouring to court her. She married Emmett when she was eighteen, but then of course, soon after, he got shipped to France. Bella's a sweet girl, but bless her, she's a little plain, and quiet. I was happy when she got her job in the factory that paid ten bob an hour, it was a great help to us all. I just wasn't sure how she'd ever meet a decent husband."

I think it best not to say that I wholly disagree with her statement, and I drink my tea in silence as I wait for her to continue. Bella has a radiance and calm about her that only adds to the beauty of her soft features, and I saw it from the first moment I met her. She isn't as obviously pretty as some girls, but in my opinion, her looks are very pleasing. I know very well why Edward thought her worthy of him, when he was certainly in demand among the Whitby girls. "Not that I mean that in a bad way, you understand," she adds hastily. "I just remember thinking that she'd done well for herself to get a lad like Edward. What happened to me – I didn't want that for her. I wanted her to have a husband who'd be around for her. And now, well that's gone up in smoke."

"He was a good man," I say, feeling my jaw tense up at having to mention him. The memory is still raw so soon after, and I'm afraid that she can see my red-rimmed eyes in the dim light of the oil lamp.

"You'd been friends since childhood, she tells me, and he was in your company. I'm so sorry. That must be terrible." The heartfelt nature of her words surprises me, and when she reaches across the table to kindly squeeze my hand, I fight to keep the tears back. I'm reminded so much of my own mother, who had a brisk manner but always let me know that she cared, even if those moments of tenderness were fleeting. It's plain to see that Renée is a woman hardened by the trials that life has given her, but I can tell that she deeply cares about her two daughters, and wants the best for them.

"Sometimes, it doesn't even feel real," I admit, and for the first time, she isn't just prattling on – she's listening to my every word. "It's like a horrible dream that I wish I could wake from, but I can't. He should be here."

"It's a cruel thing, something that takes our young men like that, isn't it? And now so many are dying of that awful influenza. Sometimes I think it's like the end of the world. Even if the war's over, it's going to take everyone a long time to get back to normal."

"Yes." I privately wonder whether I'll ever be normal again, and I'm not so sure I will be. The word is so alien to me already. I feel separated from this world after so much time spent in a frenetic atmosphere of death and destruction, and I'm not sure if I can ever come back.

I drain the last of my tea and get up to leave. "I think I'll go home – Bella needs her family right now. But if I can do anything at all, please don't hesitate to ask me. I promised Edward I'd make sure she was alright."

"That's very nice of you, Jasper. I'll tell her you stopped by." Her face has softened, and I'm pleased that I seem to have made a good impression on Bella's mother. Otherwise my promise to look in on her would be rather more difficult to keep.

#

I reach my house and I see that Mrs Rivers has helpfully left the key under the mat for me. I resolve to thank her tomorrow morning for her trouble as I silently let myself in. As I make my way down the hallway I marvel at how every part of this place remains so familiar to me. It's two years since I've been here, and yet everything looks just the same. However, there's a sombre quiet that it's never had before. This house is steeped in loneliness from the floorboards to the ceiling, and holds none of the warmth it did in my childhood. I spot our few photographs, and in the parlour, the set of smart, stiff-backed furniture my mother was so proud of. The kitchen looks neat and tidy, and upon investigation, I find that Mrs Rivers has also stocked the pantry for me. There's ham and bread and cheese, and my stomach reacts with interest as I haven't eaten all day. It's certainly better than the bully beef we were forced to eat at the Front when the Red Cross food parcels were delayed. I won't make supper just yet though, I decide. I feel a yearning to see my old room, even if it may hold none of the comfort it held for me as a boy. I ascend the stairs slowly and carefully turn the handle on the first door I come to.

As it creaks open, I see that it's as if time has stood still in this room. Its beige carpet, with a mark in the corner from when I spilt blacking on it trying to clean my father's boots at the age of seven; the walls in a faded shade of lemon and the old bed in the corner with its white eiderdown. Knowing what I'm looking for, I pull up the corner of the sheet that hangs down to the floor, and my hand closes on smooth wood. It's my old toy box. I pull it out, and lift the lid. They seem a little dusty, as it's a long time since I opened the box, but the toys are still in surprisingly good condition considering the amount me and Edward played with them when we were children. Although, a lot of our games were imaginary and would involve elaborate characters and subterfuges. I couldn't help but recall a vivid memory of a favourite of ours: _German Spies._

_I was hidden under the bed, behind a box of books. Mother was outside cleaning the yard, and she shouted up a few times for us not be so loud when we clomped up and down the stairs. We were playing what was essentially an exaggerated version of I Spy. Except, in our version the seeker was required to carry around a magnifying glass – or 'spy glass', as we called it._

_Edward was peering, holding up the magnifying class as he roamed around, trying to see where I was hiding. It amused me to see that he didn't seem to suspect my hiding place at all. That was why I'd chosen to closet myself under the bed – it was so obvious, he wouldn't even bother to look there._

_"You're a Jerry spy!" he yelled, seizing me by the collar of my shirt and dragging me out from under the bed._

_"You missed the time!" I retorted, sticking my tongue out, and he scowled. "I win this time. Now I get to keep your Victory puzzle cards."_

_"Not fair!" He folded his arms across his chest but then nodded with a sigh. "But, okay. If we agreed."_

_"I want to be a spy one day," I announced, still buzzing with the excitement of winning the game. "Or a soldier. It'd be so exciting to be in a war, don't you think?"_

_"Yes," he replied dreamily, sitting on the floor next to me and propping himself up with his elbows. "Although, when I play soldiers, father frowns and says things like 'war is futile'. I don't really know what that means, but I think he doesn't like war. Mother just sighs and tells me to stop wasting time on silly games."_

_"I'm not sure what my Dad would think of war," I said, frowning. "But then, I suppose I can't ask him." It had been just a year since I lost my father, and already I didn't even think of him much. That made me sad._

_"Sorry," Edward says, and we didn't speak of it any more. He got his Victory cards out and offered to let me have them for an extra week, an offer which I gratefully accepted._


	5. Stranger in a Strange Land

It's been just two weeks since my return home, but the hours stretch endlessly with each tick of the second hand as slow as a lifetime. My days are spent on long walks along the freezing, deserted beaches – anything to clear my head – and my nights are spent in fitful nightmares. I wake often, the sweat pouring off me as I remember cradling Edward's crumpled body in my arms. One morning, as I'm reading the paper and ignoring a piece of toast I'm not hungry for, I hear a tentative knock at the door. I unbolt it and find Bella on the doorstep, shivering slightly despite the thick wool shawl she's wrapped in.

"Did you walk here?"

She rolls her eyes. "You sound like my mother. I think she'd swaddle me in cotton wool and keep me locked in my bedroom if she could. It's not far."

"Come in; you must be freezing" I tell her, and she looks around the hall in interest. I see her eyes focus on the tintypes displayed on the hall table – one of me with my father in his fishing gear and a family portrait taken on a day out to Scarborough.

"I don't know why I'm here. I just wanted to thank you again for making sure you could tell me yourself. And whatever it was you said to Mum. You may as well be a saint in her eyes; she hasn't stopped talking about you since you stopped by the other day."

I cast my eyes down to the floor, feeling a little awkward. "Well, she made me feel very welcome. Would you like some tea?"

"That would be lovely, thank you," she says politely, her eyes fixed on the clasped hands in her lap.

I wonder why she isn't looking up but then note that she looks as if she's struggling not to cry. Not wanting to draw attention to it for fear of upsetting her more, I decide to give her a minute to compose herself. I get to my feet and rummage through the well-stocked cupboard until I find a tin of tea leaves that seem relatively fresh. These tasks are so familiar, it's no different to making tea in the dugout. Boiling water, spooning tea leaves into the pot, letting it brew. Soldiers like Edward and I more or less survived the war on tea.

_Except of course, he didn't._

The thought seeps into every pore, chilling every inch of me as if I've been plunged into icy water. It's so recent that sometimes, I still forget. I worry that the hardest time will be when I lose those moments of blissful ignorance, when I don't even remember what I've lost. One day, I'll wake up and won't believe everything is normal, even for the briefest minute. This morning I remembered almost immediately, and my stomach clenched as the memory flooded back. Some days it takes longer, and I treasure those moments, even if they are already becoming few and far between. I pour the tea and set the mugs down, adding some milk as per her request.

After I sit down, we don't say anything for a few moments. The silence runs, marked only by the soft tick of the second hand on the kitchen clock.

"I really don't know what to say," I burst out suddenly, cradling the mug in my hands for the warmth it provides. "I wish I could say something to make things better, but I know I can't."

She raises her head, and her eyes are glistening with tears that haven't yet spilled out. "I know," she says in a hollow voice. "I'm not here just to be a misery or to make you feel guilty. I know there wasn't anything you could have done."

"Agh! I'm sorry," I respond, the words tumbling out in my haste to explain. I really am a prize idiot for making her feel worse when she's already lost her husband. "I really didn't mean that at all. I just meant that I wish there was something I could do to help."

"There is something you can do." Bella casts her eyes down to her mug and takes a brief gulp of her tea. "It's good tea, by the way."

I can't help but smile at her praise of my tea-making skills amid the serious discussion we're having. "Thank you. But really, anything," I tell her sincerely. "Ask away."

"I just want to talk about him. I know I didn't really see him very much, and it was very whirlwind, but really, we got to know each other through our letters. But of course, you knew him longer than I did."

I nod, still unsure what she's asking of me. My throat seems narrowed and stuck, and I would almost love to cut the conversation short and forbid talk of him. But I can't do that to her. She deserves this much from me.

"I did, but I'm not sure if I can tell you everything about him. Edward was always a very private person, in some ways."

"I just wanted to feel close to him," she admits shyly, a slight flush rising up her neck and face. "And I don't think anyone knew him better than you did."

"What was it like when you were in France? He never used to tell me much in his letters, he said he didn't want to burden me with that. We used to write back and forth about all the things we wanted, and the little house we'd buy when the war was over." Her eyes are moist as she finishes her sentence, and not for the first time, I feel an overwhelming pity for her. I'm not sure if I should be as candid as she obviously wants me to be. What am I supposed to tell her? I'm not sure if Edward would want me upsetting his widow with tales of lice and pestilence on the front line. It's not for a woman's ears.

"It was hell," I say, and she knows from my face that I'm unable to say any more at the present.

"He was different, you know, even the second time he came back," she muses, tucking the shawl tighter over her rounded belly. "Not in the way he acted with me, of course, but there was always something behind his eyes." I don't escape the fact that she winces as she finishes her sentence.

"Are you all right?"

"Yes, thanks. My back just hurts."

We talk for the rest of the afternoon over tea and crumpets with butter and jam from my well-stocked pantry. I find that I have an appetite for the first time in weeks, and perhaps it's from the contentment that I feel being in Bella's company. I can see that it helps her to hear about Edward, and in a way, it helps me too. It's strangely therapeutic to be able to talk about the memories I have of my friend that aren't to do with the way his life ended.

#

Only two days later, I'm woken from an afternoon nap I took due to the fitful, broken sleep I had the previous night by a colossal pounding on the door. I rush downstairs, pulling my bed-jacket on as I go. When I open the door, Rose is there, looking exhausted, and she tells me shortly that Bella gave birth to her son in the night. I don't take her irritable mood to heart as I'm sure that she's been very busy for the last few hours. I'm told that mother and baby are both doing well, which I'm relieved to hear, but she doesn't stay long.

Several days after that, Rose returns and tells me Bella's well enough for a visit. My steps are leaden and my heart's beating in trepidation as we finally reach the door and step inside. I don't feel prepared, even after my rare outburst on the pier the other day, for this. I fear that when I see the child, I'll be looking straight into the face of my dead friend, and I don't know if I can handle that.

"She's been asking for you," Rose says with a smile. "Go on up. She's in the second bedroom." She turns back to wringing out some linens in the kitchen. I slowly make my way upstairs, conscious of the loud, clomping sound my boots make with each step. I find the second doorway along the hall, and knock.

"Come in," says a faint voice, and I push open the door. It's a cosy little room with a bed, white drapes, a bookcase filled with much-read novels, and even childish toys in the corner. I spot Bella immediately. She's leaning back against the pillows wearing a nightgown, and she looks worn out but content. There's a basket beside her lined with white lawn sheets with delicate edging.

She sits up on her elbows, wincing a little and I hasten to help her, straightening her pillows as she leans forward so she'll be more comfortable. "Thank you."

"How are you?" I ask. "Rose told me everything went well."

"Well, Mum and Rose had to manage on their own in the end, but I'm fine. We couldn't to get the doctor to come because he was all tied up with the flu victims. But it was just because it's my first. He came round yesterday morning to see me when he'd finished the night at the hospital and said I'm doing very well."

"That's good." I can't help but go a little red, and she echoes it, turning her gaze down as she blushes slightly. This isn't a proper or usual situation, a man who isn't a family member even being aware of such feminine mysteries. But then, the both of us know that there can be nothing usual about any of this.

There's a gurgling sound followed by rustling, and both our heads automatically turn towards the basket. She smiles. "I think he's awake. Come and see him. I think he'd like to meet you."

She reaches into the basket and carefully scoops up the infant, lifting him out. He's dressed in a little white knitted outfit and matching hat, and to me he's rather funny-looking. His skin is pinky-red and paper-thin, and I note how tiny he is.

"What are you talking about?" she murmurs, her nose pressed against his tiny one, and I can't help but smile at the sweet sight. "Trying to say something to your mother, are you?" The baby gurgles happily as she pecks him on the nose. Bella looks up at me.

"Here, take him," she says, handing the baby over, and before I've even had time to prepare I feel a small weight being placed into my arms. I'm immediately aware of how small and fragile he feels and terrified that I might drop him. I think Bella catches the fear in my eyes, for she motions for me to sit on the chair beside her with a knowing smile. I sit down carefully, and slip my hand beneath his lolling head to support it.

"See, you're a natural with him," she tells me approvingly, and I raise my eyebrow.

"I thought I'd drop him!" For the first time, I let myself look down and properly see his face. I can see hints of Edward in his tiny jaw, even if his face does look a little scrunchy right now. I'm struck that he's such a part of him, but warm and alive. I'm filled with sudden pity for this poor little thing that'll never know his father who lies in the cold earth of France. What surprises me is that the baby's eyes are a dark blueish colour. He blinks, his eyes swivelling to me in an unfocused manner. Bella sees me frown and shoots me a quizzical look.

"His eyes..."

"Oh! Yes, that is strange, isn't it? Newborns always have those kind of blue eyes, my mother said. The colour usually changes eventually."

"I wonder if he'll have his eyes," I say quietly, and the calm mask slips from her face.

"I really hope so," she replies, her voice shaky, but I'm distracted momentarily.

The baby stirs in my arms, and its face screws up. I hear a mewling cry from it and, in the makeshift cradle of my arms, gently move him from side to side. I'm just about to hand him back to Bella, when, to my utter surprise, his cries quiet. For some bizarre reason, he seems content in my arms, blinking up at me with new eyes. I stretch out my hand to touch his tiny one, and his fingers close round my thumb. His grip is surprisingly strong, and I chuckle.

Bella laughs softly as she observes the two of us. "Edward always said you had a gift with people. I didn't know that included babies as well. He likes you; I can tell."

"I can't imagine why."

"He cries like anything if Rose picks him up," she adds, going pink, and I meet her gaze with a grin. "I think he's warming to her, though."

Seconds later, the cries start up again and I pass him back to his mother. She tucks his blankets in tighter and plants a kiss on his forehead.

"Hungry?" she murmurs to the baby, and I stand up, my face colouring slightly again.

"I'll just..."

"By the way," she tells me, her face purposeful, "I'm going to call him James Edward Masen."

I nod approvingly. "It's fitting that he's got his father's name as his middle name." I want to say something else, and I try to speak, but it seems that my tongue is glued to the roof of my mouth, and I remain silent.

When I close the door and step out on to the landing, I pause for a moment. A single tear slides down my cheek, making its way to my chin in a moist trail of shame and grief. I wouldn't show this to Bella or her family, but the sense of aching emptiness I feel at him being gone grows stronger every day. Seeing his child brings it all back for me. _He should be here._ This is all wrong. He should be here to give his wife a kiss for all her efforts, to hold his son for the first time and marvel at the wonder of something that is entirely theirs. Something inside me splinters, and not for the first time, I struggle not to break down in tears. It wouldn't be the thing to do.

#

The months pass in a blur of stops and starts, each moment more numb than the next. But it is not all darkness. I often stop over at the Swan house to look in on baby James, and they are quite used to my presence. Emmett, Rose's husband, returns home after six months thankfully healthy, and they buy a little house and move into it. As I get to know Emmett, it amazes me that the war barely seems to have affected him. He remains a cheerful, irreverent individual and a much-needed presence for us all in these dark times.

The one thing that keeps me going is seeing Edward's son grow healthy and strong, and Bella is a great mother to him. Another of the pinpricks of light through the blackness is the easy friendship Bella and I develop, and we talk of Edward often to remind ourselves. I'm not sure how much it helps me, as my nightmares grew worse for weeks until I finally gave and saw the doctor. He diagnosed me as suffering from neurasthenia, as I'd once feared, and said I shouldn't work for at least the next year. I have my substantial war pension to live on, but I'm ashamed of the weakness of my own mind. Nothing makes you feel less of a man than that. Yes, I've seen unimaginable horrors, but haven't so many other men? One day, I crack and tell Bella all about it, but she doesn't react as I expect her to. She isn't needlessly pitying, she merely listens. I feel that she somehow understands, even though she wasn't there for it. However, she's experienced the pain that war causes just as I have, and I would not diminish her part in it.

In turn, I'm there when the thick package arrives with the seal of Buckingham Palace on it. I watch Bella remove the memorial plaque with one shaking hand as she holds James in the other, and struggle to rein in my own grief as the loss of my friends hits home once again. Handing both the child and the plaque to me, she escapes out into the yard alone, fighting tears, and I let her go, knowing she doesn't want him to see her upset even if he wouldn't exactly understand. The baby starts to cry and I clumsily rock him in one hand while tracing the contours of the metal plaque with the other. The edge is inscribed with 'He Died For Freedom And Honour,' but those words describe little of how Edward died. Needlessly, senselessly – those words seem more appropriate. Millions of these plaques will have been sent out all over the country, thought to provide some small comfort to the next of kin of the victims. I don't see how a small circle of metal will take away the fact that a loved one has died, but then, that's just my opinion.

"I'm sorry," I whisper to the baby, even though I know that he can't understand me.

Moments later, Bella comes back in, wiping her eyes. I want to ask if she's alright, but she's immediately brisk and businesslike. She scoops the still-sniffling James out of my arms and goes to put him down for a nap while I'm left staring at the hunk of metal in my hand.

"I didn't want him to see me crying," she says when she returns a few minutes later. "He can tell when I'm upset, even if he doesn't understand." She takes the memorial plaque from me and stares at it for what seems like forever, her knuckles white from the force of her grip on it.

"You should put it on the mantelpiece," I tell her, my throat dry and my face set from trying to hold back the tears. "When James is older he'll be really proud of it."

"I want him to be," she says, her voice cracking, and I put my hand on her shoulder. "When he's older, you can tell him how brave his father was."

"You know I will." _Edward, I miss you,_ my mind whispers. Even though it does no good, every day I long to have my friend back.


	6. Hurricane

It's a chilly September day, the wind whistling through every crack in the window frames and occasionally fluttering the pages of the journal as I write. It's been almost ten months now since Edward died, and though the pain hasn't lessened, we are all beginning to get used to it. I'm able to indulge in a fleeting memory of my best friend without immediately feeling the urge to break down in tears, and for now, I think that is progress. I especially can't help but admire the way Bella's managed to carry on for her son. He's growing into a fine little boy, as I can attest from my frequent visits.

I start at an unexpected knock and when I come downstairs, surprisingly, it's her. I see Bella often, but this is one of the few times she's visited my home alone.

"Bella!" I say, pleased to see her, however my cheerful greeting dies in my throat when I see how she looks. Both the scarf that she's wrapped round her head and her shawl are soaked from the driving rain she must have endured on the way here. Her head's bowed, and there are trails of moisture on her cheeks– but whether it's tears or rain, I can't tell. I usher her inside without a word, shaking my head at her appearance. "You're wet through," I scold her, and she peels off her wrap and scarf, much drier underneath.

"Not really," she says in a small voice. "Just the shawl and scarf."

"Here, I'll hang them by the fire in the kitchen." I take the sodden wool garments and swiftly hang them over the rack by the fire before returning to her in the hall.

"I'm sorry to drop in on you like this, so unexpectedly," she says, chewing on her lip. She's obviously nervous, and I'm immediately curious as to why. Over recent months we've forged an easy friendship, and awkwardness isn't something I'm used to with her.

"Never be sorry. You're always welcome," I tell her. "Would you like to come and sit in the kitchen or something? It's warm there."

Almost imperceptibly, she shakes her head. "Can I...see your old room? It's just that I remember him telling me that you always used to play here as boys. I'd like to see a place where I could feel close to a part of him."

I nod, not seeing any reason why she shouldn't, although now I'm suddenly nervous too. It isn't only due to the fact that she mentioned Edward either, even though that tends to send my nerves into a jangled state. I recall that I didn't make my bed this morning, and the room may be in a less than tidy state as I wasn't anticipating any company. Certainly not up there. "Of course."

She follows me upstairs, looking around with interest at the little ornaments affixed on various shelves, and another tintype of my mother laughing at the beach with friends when she was young. It's faded of colour, but it captures the practical, optimistic spirit I remember so well in her. Bella pauses and looks at the photo with interest. "Is that your mother?"

"Yes." I nod. "Just before she married my father."

"Do you miss her a lot?" she asks, her hand gently closing on my elbow. I jolt at the touch, even if I'm not quite sure why.

"I do," I say, aware that I'm responding in monosyllabic tones. "Sorry, I'm not really sure what to say. I sometimes find it hard to miss her, if you know how I mean?"

"Yes. I know your father died when you were young, too, like mine. I'm sorry." Her voice is soft, and a tear is glistening at the corner of her eye as she turns to follow me up the last couple of steps.

"Thanks," I reply dully, a sudden wave of nausea twisting in my stomach as I'm reminded of yet more loss. Thankfully, she notices and says no more about it. As we reach my room and I push open the door, she smiles. "Were you always so tidy?"

"I didn't realise I'd have company," I say with a light laugh that hopefully conceals how brittle I'm feeling inside.

"I can feel him in this room," she remarks, her gaze roving around before it falls on the old toybox I've left in the corner of the room. Crossing over to it, she pulls out the worn, faded pack of Victory cards, and I feel a twinge of sadness. She has her back to me, so I have no idea how she's reacting as she picks up various toys and weighs them in her palms; a miniature rocking horse, a dog, a magnifying glass once used in a simple game. I stare out the window, watching the rain pelt the cobbled streets outside, but I'm distracted when I hear a soft sob.

"Bella? Are you alright?" I ask, stepping forward, but she doesn't answer. I place my hand on her back, trying to be comforting, and slowly, she turns. I can see the tears are pouring down her face, each silvery bead slowing as it reaches her chin. As much as I know I shouldn't even think this, she's so completely and utterly beautiful, even in her pain. There are so many things I long to say right now, each one more inappropriate than the last. I know that this is my best friend's widow. I shouldn't even be thinking such things, let alone contemplating saying them.

"I miss him, too," I tell her, feeling my heart rate skitter, the blood pulsing through my veins with every stilted beat.

She's too close. I can see every speck of moisture glistening on her lashes as she looks up at me beneath them. I take a step, and so does she, and now she's so near I can feel her breath on my face. Her lips are just inches from mine, and for a moment I entertain the thought of kissing her. Thankfully, at the last second she draws back before I entirely lose my head and seek comfort in the softness of her mouth. I exhale, only realising then that I've been holding my breath for the past few seconds. Almost of its own accord, my hand reaches up to stroke the silken curls that her hair's carefully pinned into, and she doesn't stop me. Her own hand closes round mine, and I follow it lower. My fingers trace the soft shell of her ear, trailing lower to dip beneath the high collar of her dress and touch the satin of her neck. She leans into me, letting out a low sigh that touches every part of me.

"Oh God, I'm sorry," I mutter, pulling away from her as I realise what it is I'm doing. Bella's questioning gaze passes over my face, and she sighs, her hands drawing up to wrap round herself. She looks scared and vulnerable, and I'm feeling just as emotionally exposed myself. The gnawing spectre of guilt tugs at me, and I can no longer ignore it. We're grieving over the loss of the same person – her husband, no less. And yet it's the acute understanding of each other's pain that's pulling us together. The scars I wear inside run far deeper than the shrapnel wounds that barely graze the surface of my skin. However, my feelings for her run just as deep, perhaps more than I've cared to admit to myself over recent months. "I don't know why I did that. I didn't mean to."

"Please don't say that."

For a moment we stand there, both caught in the vortex of need and guilt. Two overpowering emotions, and I have no idea which one will win out. I'm still holding her against me, my arms wound round her back, and I register how small and fragile she feels in my arms. It would be so easy to just lean in and claim her lips, and yet, I don't.

"Alright. I do mean it," I tell her, lowering my voice. "But you know I shouldn't be doing this. You shouldn't be mine. You should be his."

Fresh tears well from her eyes, spilling out over her cheeks, and I brush my thumb over her face, trying to wipe them away. I didn't mean to upset her, and it pulls at me deep inside, unearthing a desperate need to her.

"I'll always be his. But that doesn't mean I don't feel something for you too. Jasper, you understand what it's like to have to pretend to be normal every day even while memories are ripping you apart inside. Everyone tells me I'm doing so well, but sometimes I feel like I just want to scream. You have to know how that feels too - he was your friend."

"Yes, I know," I say quietly. "But I shouldn't take advantage of you. I care for you a lot." _You have no idea how much,_ I want to add, but I decide not to. I don't want to overwhelm or confuse her.

"You aren't taking advantage. I know what it I'm asking of you. And it's not just because you're so great with James, or because you come round and help us out. Jasper, just...don't you ever feel like you need someone? And you aren't just someone. I care for you a lot." She's a little red-faced, and obviously not used to propositioning a man, but I'm touched by her words.

My teeth scrape over my lip as I continue to wrestle with my instincts, which is becoming more difficult with every word that falls from Bella's gentle lips. I don't wish to take advantage of her, or sully her reputation; I respect her utterly. But I'm only a man, after all, and Bella's figure is altogether too pleasing to my eyes. I'm losing my resolve.

"Jasper," she whispers, and in spite of myself, I think that I'd like to hear her say my name like that again. It's the way you talk to a lover, and nobody's spoken to me that way in the longest time. "Please."

Her lips part as she forms the word, and I try to resist my growing need for her, ashamed of it. Every emotion I have for her is so complex, a heady mix of need and want and a longing to comfort her. We've both been so wrapped up in our grief that every feeling is new. The momentary peace we feel in each other's presence is precarious, and could shatter any second.

However, her tears have weakened my resolve, and as I reach out to tuck a stray curl behind her ear, I feel compelled to kiss her cheek. Bella's eyes close, and my lips find each eyelid, pressing gently to the delicate skin. She shivers against me, and I feel her hands travel up my arms to rest on my shoulders. Tentatively, I kiss the corner of her lip, and her head shifts so our lips meet but are barely touching. We're teetering on the edge of a precipice, with no way of knowing who'll fall first. Her brown eyes search my face, and carefully, I let my lips mould to to hers with the gentlest pressure.

Slowly, she responds to me, her mouth soft and warm against mine as her arms wind round my neck. She tastes caramel-sweet and I can't help but let out a low groan against her lips as the kiss deepens. I want to hate myself for being attracted to her, and try to tell myself that it's wrong. At the same time, the moments we've spent together in recent months are the only thing I've looked forward to. Briefly, we break apart and her expression suddenly looks concerned. For a fleeting moment, I wonder if she's changed her mind, but I pray that she hasn't. I need her, and I want her to need me too.

Her fingers trace the line of my jaw, and I try to silence my thoughts and relax into the pleasure of her warm skin on mine. Currents of need course through me, tinged with desperation, and I lower my mouth back to hers. My hand on her back tightens its grip, bowing her into me, and her fingers tangle in my hair as she pulls me closer. I feel as if I should let her take the lead, but it's so difficult not to respond. She lets out this tiny moan into my mouth, and I squeeze my eyes shut, feeling my trousers become uncomfortably tight.

Bella's head tilts back until her gaze is fixed on mine. Her lips are slightly swollen, and she looks perfect. "There's never been anyone but him," she says nervously. "I'm probably no good at this, but I..."

I cover her lips with my own, not wanting her to say any more, and she sighs before giving into my kiss. At this point we've abandoned all reason, and may as well allow ourselves to sink deeper into one another.

"I'll make it alright for you, I promise," I tell her clumsily as we draw back a little, our shallow breaths still grazing each other's lips. She nods an affirmative and I shift my hands to her hair, tugging gently at one of the numerous pins holding it up. It's hardly different from removing the pin from a grenade, and in no time, I free each tendril until soft curls come down to her shoulders. She's grace and beauty and everything I probably don't deserve. Whenever I close my eyes I see the faces of the men I've killed. Agony and torment bloom among the familiar shapes and colours in the darkness, ensuring even my subconscious brings me no peace. Bella's the antithesis to those things - gentle and soft yet tough as steel beneath the surface. I can no longer the deny the feelings I have for her, and the ones I hope she has for me.

"It's a mess," she laughs shyly, blushing, but I shake my head. I comb my fingers through the silky strands and can't help but imagine how alluring she'd look in my bed, her hair falling all round her shoulders as I make love to her. My hands slide round her back to reach the buttons of her dress, and I realise they're sweating. I'm nervous, and by the way she's trembling, I think she is too. Cautiously, her fingers move to the collar of my shirt and begin to unfasten its buttons. I let her take the lead. She parts the fabric and slowly runs her fingers over my chest, and I place my hand over hers as her fingers tap out the marks of my scars.

"They're-" I start to say, but she places her finger to my lips.

"I know," she whispers, her voice low and urgent in the quiet of the room. "He told me you were spent weeks in hospital, that you caught the shrapnel from a bombardment. He was really worried about you." Of course. I hadn't forgotten the letters he wrote to her every week. It saddens me that we can't even bring ourselves to mention his name like we always do, but not right now. Not right now. She dips her head to kiss one of the scars, and a jolt of pleasure runs through my veins. I can feel her in every part of me; her warmth, her breath reaching inside me and melting away the cold of loneliness. Deftly, I slip each button of her dress out of its place, feeling the cotton loosen with each one I undo. I push the fabric from her shoulders and she coaxes it down over her hips till it pools at her feet. Slipping each stocking off in turn, she lets them slowly drop to the floor.

She unlaces the back of her corset and I fumble with the clasps that hold it together at the front, but she smiles and gently moves my hand away to do it herself. I've no idea how women manage such complicated things. I watch her unhook each eyelet, metal detaching from metal in an achingly slow process. As she opens the last fastening, she holds the boned edges together, delaying the garment's removal.

"What is it?" I ask, covering her hand with mine. Her fingers are gripping the fabric so tightly that her knuckles have drained of colour. I watch fear and vulnerability alternately play across her face, and I'm full of sudden concern for her. I'm holding my breath without even realising, and as I let it go, she opens her mouth to speak.

"I don't really like my body," she says shyly, her ivory skin reddening. I take her face in my hands and kiss her forehead, letting my lips linger on it.

"Shh, no," I tell her, wanting to dispel such nonsense. "You're beautiful. Let me see you."

Bella acquiesces with a sigh, parting the layers and finally letting the stiff fabric drop to the floor. My breathing hitches as she reveals her soft curves, slim yet rounded at the same time.

"You're lovely," I tell her, and she truly is. Her skin's exquisitely pale, almost silvery in the dim light from the overcast sky through the window, and I long to touch her. I bring her closer to me, and she wraps her arms round me, running them over my back slowly. The muscles ripple under her touch, and she lets her hands slide slower, stopping just above my waistband. I pause as her fingers teasingly drop just a fraction lower, and I groan softly. However, I won't be distracted from my exploration of her skin, everything so new and perfect to me. My fingers mark a path from her hips to her stomach, and higher. Her ribs flutter against my touch as I come into contact with them, eventually moving to press my fingertips into the softness of her breast. I cup its warmth in my hand and she whimpers in my ear. "Better now?" I ask, hoping she's relaxed a little.

"Yes," she says faintly, her eyes flashing darkly as they meet mine. We're still standing, and I feel as if I should be more of a gentleman and at least lie her on my bed if we're going to be engaging in such things. Closing my hand round her waist, I pull her towards the piece of furniture strewn with rumpled sheets, the covers thrown back in a messy heap. I'm ashamed that I haven't even made my bed this morning, but then, I had no idea she'd even be in my room. An echo of guilt whispers to me as I lie her on the bed, moving to join her. It's instantly silenced when she knots her fingers into my hair and brings her mouth to mine.

Bella's bolder now, pulling me into a deep kiss of want and need and desperation. I groan into the warmth of her mouth and she hooks her fingers into my belt loops, bringing me even closer. With a breathy sigh into my mouth that burns straight through me, she moves to unbutton my trousers. However, I have to remove my lips from hers and shake my head as I remember I'm still wearing my boots. Awkwardly, I sit up to pull off my battered boots and socks, and she watches through heavy-lidded eyes and parted lips. I swiftly unbutton my trousers and slide them down my legs, kicking them to the floor as I rejoin her. Placing my hand on her back, I shift closer to her, my fingers splayed out over the heat of her satin skin. Bella is a welcome, blissful oblivion that I can't help but absorb myself in. Her gentle touch clouds every unwelcome thought and horrific memory that's burned itself into my brain. Right now, we're everything the other needs, and every kiss and whispered endearment is a salve for our wounds, albeit a momentary one.

I allow her to divest me of my final layers and then there's nothing left. With a shallow breath against my cheek, she reaches downwards and traces the outline of my hardness that's no longer confined. Immediately, my body responds so much I almost have to push her hand away, desire coursing through me. In this heightened state I'm afraid that I'll embarrass myself, and I really want her to feel pleasure too. I'm not that selfish, even if everything that led me to this point was borne of my own selfish craving for comfort. Shoving the pile of tangled sheets out of the way, I lightly push her onto her back, enjoying the contrasting sight of her tendrils of dark hair against the cream of my pillow.

I trail kisses down her neck and collarbone, down to her left breast. My tongue darts out to circle the pink peak, and I feel it tauten under my ministrations. She moans softly, and when I blow cool air over it from between my pursed lips, she lets out a strangled cry that I can't wait to hear again. I move to lavish attention on the other side, closing my mouth over the tight bud, and let my teeth connect with it every so slightly. Her hands twist in my hair eagerly as my lips slide lower, dotting warm, wet kisses to the quivering tautness of her stomach. Pushing the waistband of her undergarment down slightly, I let my tongue trace the groove in between her hipbones and she lets out the loudest moan yet.

Raising my head to meet her eyes, I take in her lust-fuelled gaze before her face twists into a frown. "Sorry. I just can't be quiet," she murmurs sheepishly, and I shake my head, not wanting her to misunderstand me.

"Please don't be," I tell her, my voice thick with arousal. "I want to hear you."

Bella exhales sharply and bites down on her bottom lip. When her teeth release it, it's slightly reddened, and I love the way it looks. I'm so distracted by the beauty of her naked form that I forget what I'm doing for a moment. Slowly, I drag the flimsy fabric down her shapely legs, and she lifts each one so I can remove it. I throw it to the floor, and she blushes, but I seek to distract her from that.

I brush my lips over her hipbone, making several passes over the sensitive skin. Her whimpers and gasps are my reward, and I relish every wonderful sound that comes from her lips. My hands slide under her knees and I lift them so they're bent. When I try to part her thighs, I meet resistance; her muscles tensing under my fingertips. Looking up, I see that she looks anxious, and I immediately think I've done something wrong.

"What are you doing?" she asks, her voice sharp in the soft focus of the dim room. In response, I kiss her thigh and even in the half-light I can see her blush furiously.

"I was going to kiss all the way up, and then if you'd let me..." I let my words trail off, surprised at how confident I sound when I'm still all churned up on the inside. But I'm not afraid anymore. Even in this short space of time, we've become more comfortable with each other. I hope that she'll let me make her feel good, because I don't want her to be shy with me. I want this to be the opposite of the empty loneliness of grief – something that won't make her feel worse, or self-loathing.

Her breathing catches, and as she breathes out a rattling, uneven breath. I catch a barely perceptible nod and that's all the encouragement I need to turn my attentions back to her. I feel her thighs loosen under the pressure of my palms, and she finally allows me to part them, her knees falling to the side. I slide up between them and resume my kisses over her hip and abdomen, going as slowly as possible because I want her to feel relaxed. My arousal grazes the bed, and it's almost painful by this point, but I want to take care of Bella first. Her breathing is shallow and uneven, and her ribs twitch against my lips as I kiss up to them, then back down.

I dip my head lower, kissing along each of her inner thighs until she's shifting her hips towards me involuntarily.

"Can I?" I ask, and when she nods, I let my mouth make contact with her for the first time. Her hips involuntarily jolt, and I wrap my fingers round her thighs, trying to hold her still. Slowly and carefully, I slide my tongue over the heat of her centre, savouring her taste. It's just like the flavour of her sweet skin, but more powerful, and I can't express in words how much I want more of it. I groan against her, knowing it enhances every sensation as I trace my tongue over her slowly. I circle the small area that gives her such intense pleasure and she whimpers, her thighs pressing tight to either side of my head. Leaving one hand against her hip to keep her steady, I let the other wander up the smoothness of her inner thigh. I pause briefly, pressing my lips to her as I do so, and she cries out softly. I look up at her and when she raises her head, I think she's never looked more radiant to me. That dark hair is tumbling all around her face which is flushed from my attentions, and her rosy lips that I've bruised with my kisses are half-open in a way I can't help but adore.

I kiss and press at her sensitive skin as her head drops back to the pillow, her mouth open in a wordless cry as I build her pleasure. The minutes pass and her moans swell in the room, one of her hands knotted in the sheets while the other tugs at my hair. She gasps and shakes as I bring her relief, feeling the tension in her body flow out freely as her thighs tremble against my head. I straighten, my hands moving to tenderly lay her legs back to the bed as I lie down beside her.

"That was..." she trails off breathlessly.

"I wasn't sure you'd let me do that," I tell her, kissing her neck, and she sighs contentedly.

"I didn't think you'd like it," she admits shyly, blinking fast. "I was...embarrassed."

"I really did. No need to be - you're so beautiful when you just let go and stop worrying." She presses her lips to my ear and pulls me closer, apparently satisfied with my honest - if clumsy - answer. I slide up her body and she winds her legs round my waist. I know she can feel me pressing against her, but I don't want to move until she's comfortable with me doing so. "Is this alright?"

She nods breathlessly and leans up to kiss my forehead. I take that as a sign I can continue. Lifting her leg slightly, I push a little inside her, cautious at first as I don't want to hurt her. She breathes in and out heavily, and I lean down to kiss her as I enter her entirely, the whole of me finally inside her. It's a chaste, tender kiss that swiftly becomes wetter and deeper as we explore each other's bodies and mouths. I move slowly at first, wary when she gasps into my mouth, but reassured when her hips push against mine, urging me on. I close my eyes, breathing in the light, floral scent of Bella's neck as I seek comfort from her flesh. Her fingers traverse my back, touching to each tiny scar before nails dig into the bare skin. The blend of passion and pain and understanding is a heady mix. As we move in unison, I feel a tear prick at the corner of my eye. I won't let it leave my eye, but it's the first tear I've had in so long that isn't borne of hopelessness and loss and death. It's a sliver of hope, and I cling to it in Bella's arms as I love her with my body.

Her soft cries in my ear only serve to fan the intense warmth that's working its way into my entire body. Misery and guilt pours away and there's only her, our movements and the quiet creak of the springs on my ancient bed. I try and slow down, but it's near impossible when she winds her legs round my waist, forcing me deeper. She feels indescribable, and I grunt into her neck, trying not to lose control but knowing it's inevitable.

"It's been so long," I choke out by way of an apology, my eyes shut so tightly that a whirl of colour explodes beneath my lids. Unexpectedly, she kisses my cheek and a hint of pleasure nothing to do with lust sparks inside me at that sweet gesture. I balance one elbow on the mattress as I thrust harder, giving myself over to my need. Then I'm lost, shuddering uncontrollably as I spill myself inside her, a half-whisper of her name on my lips. She strokes my hair and I brace my weight to avoid collapsing on top of her instinctively. I roll off her and she sits up, winding the swathes of soft cotton sheet around her.

I clear my throat, feeling awkward. "I'm sorry I didn't-" I begin, but she shakes her head.

"No. It was wonderful," she says quietly, but it's then I see that the tears are falling from her eyes. It's so dark now I should really light the lamp, but I feel as if I should just stay here with her for the moment. "Sorry. I'm not crying because of you. I just..." She trails off with a sob, and without even stopping to think, I pull her into my arms, sheets and all.

"I know," I tell her, even though I can't be sure of the exact reason she's crying. I hope that it isn't because she completely regrets everything we just did. I feel guilt, for sure, but I wouldn't say that I regret it. If I made her feel better, at least for a few moments, then that's enough for me. But is it really enough? In spite of everything, I realise that I want it to mean something. I want her to know that the time I spend with her is more than just the result of the promise I made to a dead man. It's so much more than that, and yet I can't tell her. I'm sure she feels guilty enough as it is, and I don't want to burden her even further. For now, I just let her lean on me, her hair brushing against my chest as her tears fall onto the sheets.

A minute or two later she pulls away, dragging the sheets up to her neck. "I should go. It's late, and Mum'll be wondering where I am. I need to put James to bed soon." I can sense she's pulling away emotionally, and I try not to let it bother me, but I can't help the sigh that escapes me. The moment she leaves, I'll go back to feeling as bereft and empty as I always do. I realise it's terribly selfish of me, but I need her.

I get to my feet and clumsily scramble into my clothes while she dresses herself with lightening-quick speed. She steps out for a minute or two, and when she returns there's barely any trace that she's been crying. Her hair's back in its neat style, and the streaks her tears have left have been washed from her face. It's almost as if this never happened, save for the rumpled sheets and the fact that it's now dark outside. I spot a hair pin on the floor that she obviously forgot, and hand it to her.

"Oh, thank you," she says, casting her eyes down as she takes it from me, and her face colours. The atmosphere is near excruciating, and I don't know what to say.

"I'm sorry if I did something wrong."

"No. It's me that did. I shouldn't have. I wasn't brought up up to act like a floozy."

"You know I don't think of you like that at all," I said, shaking my head.

"I suppose I see you so much, and I'm close to you, and so I was selfish. I just wanted to forget."

"Don't you think we both wanted that?"

"I know. I'm just so confused." Bella covers her face with her hands, shaking her head from side to side. "Please don't think it wasn't...the best I've felt in so long. But I shouldn't have. We shouldn't have."

"I know," I say, frozen to the spot, unable to articulate myself as I want to. I want to tell her it doesn't matter, that we shouldn't feel guilty for merely seeking comfort in one another. But I can't help but feel it's more than that, and so I remain silent. She gathers her things and I follow her down the stairs, opening the door for her as is customary.

"Goodbye," she says curtly, casting her eyes down, and my heart sinks further. I hope I haven't just done something I'll regret forever. Our friendship has irrevocably changed from this point onwards, and I'm afraid we'll never get back that easy intimacy I've grown so used to.

I ball my right hand into a fist as she leaves, and contemplate punching the wall in irritation. I decide against it, but the poisonous, pervasive feelings remain. Briefly, I wonder if God will smite me for doing something so flagrantly wrong. If it's wrong to covet thy neighbour's wife, then surely it must be wrong to covet the widow of your best friend. She belongs to another man, even in death, and I've taken that away and made a mockery of it. I'm realising now how much I care for her, and how it's so much more than how you care for a friend.

_I love her._

The thought is stark, stripped of its romantic wrappings, but it's there nonetheless. I didn't know that I could love anyone. I've "loved" girls before, but only under the pretext of getting into their knickers. This was nothing like that. At least for me, anyway. I momentarily consider the possibility that it meant nothing for her, that I merely served a purpose. My insides clench painfully as the thought works its way inside me, a weed that could strangle the budding shoots of hope. However, then I think of all my interactions with Bella, especially the more recent ones. She often seems happy in my presence, and actively pleased to see me when I come to visit her and James. Perhaps I'm being a paranoid wreck over nothing, but then again, what do I expect to happen?

I don't want to replace Edward in her eyes, and I know I can't. I would never want it to be the case that we could never mention him, particularly for the sake of his son. With a heavy sigh, I slam the door shut, the echoing bang still ringing in my ears as I make my way back down the hall.


	7. Saviour

Four days later, I'm working on a wood carving in my kitchen, just the way my father taught me to. I haven't carved anything in years, but something drove me to get out my knife and sculpt the rough, ugly wood into something beautiful. I've got a mind to make something for James- probably another farmyard animal to add to his wooden toy collection. Carefully considering the angle, I slide the metal through the piece I'm holding in my hand. I follow the line of the grain, and the blade cuts through it easily, the slice of wood falling to the table below. A clean cut, just like the one Bella inflicted upon me when she left so abruptly, filling my head with endless questions. Rarely, if ever, has more than a day or two gone by without some contact from her. I've been trying not to think of it, but there is little distraction to be found. I'm afraid that I've been given a brief glimpse of something I can never have. However, I can't feel as guilty as I should. For that, I feel I've betrayed Edward's memory even further.

A sound makes me stop in my tracks. It sounds like the knock of a hand on the heavy wooden door, but I ignore it, thinking my imagination is playing tricks on me. Until the sound comes again, this time louder. In spite of everything, my heart soars. I get to my feet slowly, even if I long to the door and pull it open. If I do that, there's no doubt it'll be the postman, butcher or some equally mundane person. It won't be her. I want it to be her.

_Please._

With sweating hands, I unlatch the lock and there Bella is. Her hair's windswept and flowing down her back, and her cheeks are a delightful hue of pink, either from the cold or the fact that she rushed here. I can't help but hope it's the latter.

"You look cold," is all I say, and I immediately wish that I'd chosen a better opening line. However, she smiles and I feel a little of the chill inside me begin to melt away.

"It's freezing out there." Her voice is neutral, but I'm happy that we're at least able to manage some semblance of conversation after the terrible finality of several days ago.

"Come in, I'll light the fire."

"Thank you, Jasper."

I take her coat and hang it on the old teak stand before I go and make some tea, gesturing for her to sit in the parlour. I bring the tea through, light the oil lamps and set the fire crackling in the grate. By the time I turn back to her, she's taken a seat on the parlour sofa. Her hands are in her lap and one crossed leg is jiggling as if she's impatient.

"How's James?"

"He's crawling!" she tells me, her eyes shining with excitement. "It's the first time he's actually started doing it properly, and unfortunately, there's no stopping him. Mum and I are always having to watch him like a hawk, bless him. He wants to get into everything."

"I'll come over and see him soon. I just didn't want to-" She cheerfully cuts me off before I can say something we'll both regret.

"He misses his Uncle Jasper." I suppose it's strange that I'm known as that, but then, I may as well be his uncle. Edward and I were like brothers. That thought sends a wave of pain through me, and I sigh, trying to block it out.

"What was that on the table?" she asks suddenly, her eyebrows arching. "It was a piece of wood you were carving, but what are you making?"

"Just something for James," I say, feeling my face grow hot. I'm not sure why I feel embarrassed to admit this to her, but I don't want her to feel like I'm only doing this for her sake. Because I'm not. I love that little boy too, and am inexorably bound to him through my friend's memory. "I thought he might like a new toy. I was going to do a duck, to go with all the sheep and cows he has. A new addition to the farmyard."

Bella's expression is impenetrable as she focuses on the carpet, but then she looks up and I can see that her eyes are moist. "Oh, Jasper," she begins softly, "that's lovely. Really. But you don't have to do it."

"I know I don't. I want to."

Her gaze is full of all the things we can't say to each other, but I'm not sure how much longer I can keep up the pretence of normality. I want to know if she meant everything she said to me that day. Even if it wounds me deeply, I would still rather know even if she doesn't have any regard for me whatsoever.

"I thought you wouldn't want to come back," I burst out, unable to avoid bringing up the one thing we feel as if we can't discuss.

"I'm sorry," she whispers, running a hand through her hair. The dark waves catch the firelight as they tumble back down, bringing out the highlights in her hair. "I had to think. I've done a lot of thinking these past four days, and I still haven't stumbled upon any answers."

Part of me thrills at the idea she isn't flat out telling me that this can't be, but another part of me wonders if she just hasn't come to that conclusion yet. "Do you think it was wrong?" I ask, knowing what I believe.

"I knew that it should be," she replies, taking a tentative sip of her tea. "But it didn't feel wrong at all. It felt like the most natural thing in the world. And I was scared because it felt that way. That's why I left so suddenly."

"I'm so sorry I made you cry."

"You didn't," she says, shaking her head. "It's just that I miss him...and at the same time, I feel something for you too."

"What do you feel?" I whisper, clutching my cup so hard I'm afraid it's going to shatter in my hand.

"I care about you more than I wanted to admit that day. It's why I came to you. It wasn't that I wanted you to make love to me just so I could forget about my dead husband." Her voice quavers on the last words, and my throat constricts. "I needed you."

"I wasn't just seeking comfort either," I half-whisper, aware that my breathing is shallow and uneven. "I needed you too. But I don't feel like I'm worthy. You're so beautiful and strong and brave and a wonderful mother, and I'm...I'm nothing. Ever since I came back, I'm a broken man. I barely sleep because of the dreams I have, and it'll be decided soon by a doctor whether he deems me psychologically fit for work. Why would you want someone like that?"

"Because I do!" she says, moving over to sit on the arm of my chair and take my hand in hers. Her fingers are warm as they link into my own cold ones. "You've been so kind to me, and every moment when I've needed someone, you've always been there. And I know you love my son as well as his father would have. Because you loved his father too."

"Yes." I hope she can't see the tears that prick at my eyes through the gloom of the oil lamp.

"You're not nothing to me."

I swallow, struggling to believe what she's telling me. "You don't have to say that."

"I know I don't have to. I want to," she replies with a brittle smile, echoing my previous words. "I mean it."

In spite of myself, my heartbeat skitters, its erratic rhythm pounding in my ears as I attempt to process the idea that perhaps Bella really feels something for me too. I take her other hand in mine, running my thumb over each of her fingers in turn. It's a soothing gesture, but whether it's too soothe me or her, I'm not sure. Part of me thinks I should just lay my cards on the table, and the worst she could say is no. On the other hand, another part is terrified of losing her company through my own misinterpretation of the signals.

"You feel something too?" I ask, my voice weak.

"Yes," she whispers, shifting closer to me.

"Bella, I'm only going to say this once," I begin, aware that my hands are shaking in hers. "If you don't agree, we can never speak of it again, and I promise I'll never mention it. I miss Edward every day, and I don't think there'll ever be a day where I won't. He was my best friend, and your husband, and I know you'll always love him. I'm not asking you to stop, and I'm not asking you to forget him. I know you can't." There's a tear in my eye that's threatening to fall, but I press on regardless, unable to even look at her. I'm too afraid to see her face right now. If I do, I might lose my nerve. "I don't want to replace him, and to try to would disrespect the memory of a friend I cared for so much."

My eyes are wet, and I chance a look at her. Her expression is soft, open, as if she's listening to every word I'm saying. She squeezes my hand, allowing me to continue. "Bella, I love you. Please don't think that the other day was merely about my own selfish need. It made me realise that I want more than that. You deserve more than that. If you'd even think of it, I'd marry you in an instant. It isn't just because I promised him I'd take care of you. I fell in love with you for my own reasons, even if I didn't plan for it to happen. I respect you, I admire you and there's no-one else I feel happier around. And I promise you, I'll look after James like he's my own." Her breathing hitches, and I fear that I've gone too far, but she doesn't move from her spot on the arm of the chair, and her hands remain linked into mine.

There are tears in her eyes as I finish, and I hold my breath, afraid to hear her answer. "You don't have to prove yourself to me, Jasper." Her fingers reach up to trace the line of my slightly unshaven jaw, and I can't help but shiver. "I love you too. It's taken me time to admit it to myself. I was afraid of what it would mean, so I tried to ignore it, but I'm tired of hiding it. If I didn't feel the same, I never would have let you make love to me like that. I knew before it happened that I loved you, but I was afraid to tell you. I was afraid you'd think that I'd want you only for my own convenience, or to have a replacement father for my son. But that isn't true at all. You made me feel alive when I'd forgotten how to be." A tear trickles down her cheek, and I brush it away with the pad of my thumb.

"You have no idea how alive you make me feel," I murmur, unable to stop myself planting a soft kiss on her cheek. "But I can't ever be him to you."

"Jasper," she says, a little more firmly even if her voice is still tremulous, "I don't want you to be him. I love you for you - for everything you do for me and my family, for your compassion, and for the way you understand me better than anyone. I love you because even when I'd left so abruptly the other day, your first thought was to make my son a toy. I know it wasn't to try and impress me, either. You'd look after him like your own, because in a way, he is. You and his father were like brothers, and I know every day without him is just as hard for you as it is for me." The tears are pouring down her face now, and I'm still afraid to let my breath go, not knowing if she'll give me my answer right now. She strokes my jaw gently, our faces so close now that our noses are practically touching. "I want you to know I'd never marry anyone unless they loved my son that much, regardless of how they felt about me. When you told me you were making that for James, I realised just how much you cared for us both. I wasn't afraid or ashamed. I knew that I'd fallen in love with you."

"Will you?" I ask, aware of the trepidation in my voice.

"My answer is yes," she whispers through trembling lips.

The cup falls from my hand and tea spills on to the carpet, rivulets of beige liquid soaking into the fibres, but I barely notice. I'm so overwhelmed with joy, and the unfamiliarity of that feeling, that I don't even stop to think before I pull her into my lap. Her arms wind round my neck as my fingers twist into her hair, and then her mouth finds mine. We need not deny ourselves any longer. Waves of pleasure surge in my brain as I taste her lips, letting out a groan into her mouth as it moulds to mine so perfectly. Hesitation and shame fall away as we finally allow ourselves to fully give in to one another. Our lips move instinctively together in an urgent kiss full of everything we couldn't admit until now. The kiss is sweet yet insistent, nothing careful or hesitant about it now all doubt has fallen. I scrape my teeth over her bottom lip and she lets out a tiny moan into my mouth. Momentarily, we break apart, our breathing swift and shallow.

"Yes?" I murmur, confirming what I already know. I tenderly tuck a tendril of hair behind her ear that my fingers have worked lose, and she smiles.

"Yes," she breathes, kissing the corner of my lip and all the way down to my jaw and the hollow of my neck. I shudder and don't object when she begins to undo the buttons at my collar. However, after several are undone, I close my hand over hers and gently stop her.

"What is it?" she asks nervously.

"Not like this," I tell her, kissing her gently to reassure her. "Let me carry you upstairs first."

She laughs. "It is the parlour, after all. It's rather improper to be undoing a gentleman's buttons in the parlour. I don't know what I was thinking."

"When we're upstairs, I promise you I'll be undoing every one of your buttons," I murmur in her ear, my teeth grazing the delicate shell of it, and she sighs.

I slide my hands under her and lift her, taking care not to drop her as I ascend the creaking staircase. When I reach my room and lay Bella down on the familiar bed, I pause for a moment as I lean over her. With one glance, I let her know how exquisite she is and how lucky I feel right now. I let my eyes appreciate every inch of her – the bloom of her soft skin, the slowly growing smile on her lips, the way her hair fans out against the pillowcase. Getting up for a moment, I kick the door closed, even though there's no-one else around. In this room, we're the inhabitants of our own perfect world, and neither of us will allow anything to spoil it just now.

There's no fear or hesitation as we traverse each other's bodies with hands and mouths; naked skin on skin. My love for her burns in my entire being as our bodies finally join seamlessly. I'm slow at first, wanting to be gentle and careful, but when her nails dig into my scalp, it sparks something inside me and our lovemaking becomes rougher and more desperate. With every second we move against each other, I let her know how much she's given me. As she reaches her peak, I can't hold back any longer and fall into the abyss right after her, a muttered "I love you" on my lips as my head falls to her neck. Her mouth finds mine in a sweet kiss before we collapse in a sated, sweaty tangle of limbs. I notice that there are tears on her lashes and I kiss each eyelid, brushing the moisture away.

I'm conscious of the time and after a few precious minutes spent in each other's arms, we have to break the spell and return to reality once more. I know she needs to get home to her family, and so we quickly dress and make ourselves presentable. I offer to walk her, but she shakes her head, pointing out it isn't even dark and she lives so close. Besides, it would look a little suspicious if I came back with her after her being away for so long. As she turns to leave, I seize her elbow as she's stepping out the door and pull her back into my arms for one last kiss. She protests at first, but then laughs into my mouth as she succumbs to my ardour.

"Goodnight," she whispers, rounding the corner before she vanishes. The sky is streaked with the violet and pink of dusk, and briefly, I lean against the doorway, just marvelling at its beauty. I haven't appreciated the simple wonders like a sunset in so long, but the intense happiness that burns inside me like a flame seems to enhance everything around. I'm still painfully aware of everything that led us to this point, but right now, I won't allow myself to dwell on it. I can't feel anything right now but the shock and awe that this amazing woman has just agreed to be my wife.

...

Years pass, and against all odds, the pieces of my shattered life begin to fit themselves back together. Bella and I initially fear the reactions of others, however, those we love gladly give us their blessing with no ill-considered judgements. I'm surprised that when I tell Edward's mother, even she understands, and tells me that I'll be a wonderful father to her grandchild. I marry Bella in the spring in a simple ceremony attended by her friends and family, and then she and James move into the cottage with me. I can think of no better way to honour the memories of my parents than to carry on living in the house they loved so much. Bella and I move into the long-forgotten master bedroom and make it our own, while I turn my childhood bedroom into a room for James. Seeing my adoptive son grow is every reward I need, even if it's tinged with a slight sadness when I see he looks more and more like Edward every day. He has the green eyes, the copper-coloured hair and even his father's mischievous smile, worn usually whenever he's driven me or his mother to distraction with a "gwame" that leaves a trail of chaos throughout the whole house.

Bella herself runs our home with a quiet grace, and at first, never seems anything but content. One day, I catch her in the yard crying over the coal-scuttle and realise that she still finds it as hard without him as I do. Of course, she selflessly feared I'd find it too difficult if she was open about it, but I assure her that's not the case. She resolves not to hide things from me, and then I hold her until the tears stop. From that moment onwards, we're able to talk of Edward a little, and she puts up a faded photograph of him in uniform in the hall. No longer is the little cottage devoid of warmth. Instead it's filled with the laughter and contentment of a loving family. Nothing is ever perfect, of course. I still have nightmares for the longest time, but she understands. On the nights I wake up soaked in sweat, her gentle, soothing touch is all I need to fall back to sleep. I'll never get back those years of my life I lost, but I am slowly finding a kind of peace of mind with the woman who inspires a calmness I've never felt before.

Rose and Emmett have their first child, a girl they name Sarah. Her personality's remarkably cheeky, much like her father, but she possesses the sternness of her mother. The three of them visit often, as do Reneé and Edward's parents, much to James' delight, as he adores his grandparents. Near the time of James' second birthday, the doctor signs me off as fit for work. Glad to be able to provide for my family as a man should, I take a job as a clerk in a mid-sized shipping company, but quickly advance and within a year or two hold a managerial post. We're able to afford a comfortable living, but see no need to give up the home that we love so well for something larger and more ostentatious.

One summer evening, we take a walk down the East pier as a family, listening to the faint sound of the band further up the beach on the promenade. It's a balmy night, and the sea spray carried on the breeze is pleasantly cool. I'm holding five-year James' hand, and when he protests at not being able to see the sea properly, I lift him up and carefully hold him at the edge of the railings so he can see over the top. I'm painfully reminded that this was the very place I considered ending my life just a few short years ago. The contrast is palpable, warmth and fulfilment superseding the cold emptiness that was once my life.

"Beautiful, isn't it?" Bella says, her hand slipping into mind.

"Yes," I reply, wanting to kiss her on the cheek but afraid my concentration will slip and send our little boy tumbling into the sea. Instead, she presses her lips to my ear, and I smile.

"There are so many stars," James pipes up, obviously feeling ignored, and we laugh. Following his gaze, Bella and I look up into the inky darkness. It's an impossibly clear night, the sky clustered with bright sprinklings of stars. "Gemini...Orion...Leo..." he mutters, pointing in the vague direction of the constellations. He always likes to look at the night sky, and I see that he's paid attention to the astronomy book I've been reading to him in the evenings. "Is my Daddy one of those stars?"

Bella squeezes my hand, and we exchange a look. "Somewhere, yes. A really bright one," I tell James, and he nods, apparently satisfied. He's starting to get heavy so I set him down on the pier again, and the three of us turn to walk back. He's too young right now, but someday I'll tell James everything about his father. The old journal that I've long since stopped writing in always serves as a reminder, however painful it may be. I'll tell him how Edward was my best friend, a wonderful man and a brave soldier.

"Look, the sea's so calm," Bella suddenly says, and I look down to see the waves gently brushing against the shoreline. It's as calm as I've ever seen this rough sea, and I can't help but be mesmerised. Just for a minute or two, we stand and watch the waves, each holding one of James' hands. Finally, I understand the promise I made, and I know that every day that goes by, I'm keeping it.


End file.
